


secret santa

by azfellbooksellers



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (sort of), M/M, i will not apologize for this saccharine holiday fic, spoiler alert: aziraphale is santa claus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:22:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27863769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azfellbooksellers/pseuds/azfellbooksellers
Summary: On a picturesque, snowy Christmas Eve, Crowley accidentally stumbles upon Aziraphale’s oldest secret.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 173





	secret santa

Crowley had never much cared for Christmas. There were hundreds of holidays that were worth celebrating, but this certainly wasn’t one of them. Much too saccharine, if you asked him. Yet somehow he could never resist the dewy expression on Aziraphale’s face every year when he put up Christmas lights in the bookshop, sipping his cocoa and humming along to Bing Crosby.

This was what lead to Crowley strolling into said shop some months after the Failed Apocalypse on a snowy Christmas Eve, wine and chocolates in hand, and ready to spend the night enjoying Aziraphale’s excitement at the holiday. 

“Angel!” He nudged the door open and called out into the shop, ignoring the gaudy tinsel hung up for his own sanity. There was no reply but the booming sound of classical music drifting from the gramophone. 

He walked into the shop, calling continuously out to Aziraphale as he made his way to the backroom. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight that he encountered when he got there.

Aziraphale was bent over, pulling on a black boot that completed the Santa Claus outfit he was donning. Crowley’s eyes darted from his long, full beard to his oversized hat, and white fuzzy gloves in abject horror. Aziraphale finished putting on his boot and straightened up, raising his hands to his stomach and finally making eye contact with Crowley.

They stared at one another silently for a long time. Aziraphale was like a deer in headlights, frozen in the act of buckling his ridiculous belt. 

“What...the _fuck_ are you doing, Aziraphale?”

The angel buckled his belt sheepishly and adjusted his crimson pants. He looked anywhere but Crowley’s face.

“I...well, I,” he trailed off.

“You’re dressed like Santa Claus, that’s what you are,” Crowley said, and lifted an eyebrow in confusion. 

“Well, yes. Yes, I am.” Aziraphale still wouldn’t meet his eye. Crowley placed the wine and chocolates down and stepped closer to him.

“We’ve established that already. _Why_ , is my question?”

Aziraphale clasped his hands together and began wringing them nervously.

“I may have inspired the whole ‘Santa Claus’ thing,” Aziraphale blurted out. “It’s all a big misunderstanding, really!” 

He cut off his explanation when he began to hear Crowley’s wheezing laughter as the demon doubled over and slapped his thigh in amusement.

“You _what_? Actually, hold on. I need the wine for this.” Crowley opened the alcohol and poured himself a glass. He dropped down on the couch in his usual spot, comfortable as an old shoe.

“Right then. Go on.” 

Aziraphale sighed and sat down daintily on the chair across from him.

“I’ll start at the beginning, then. If you remember, I spent most of the fourth century in Patara.”

“Hated that century. That tsunami was an absolute nightmare.” 

“Anyway,” Aziraphale continued. “Heaven was all caught up in fixing up the designs for our battle outfits for the Great War then, so I was able to get away with more miracles. It all started when I saved three lovely young women from being sold, and it just sort of...well, spiraled from there.” 

“So you just...let yourself become a global phenomenon? How unangelic of you.”

“For starters, I’d say it would be a perfect example of angelicness. Look at Gabriel, for example. Painted in every church on the planet, I believe.”

“Wanker,” Crowley snorted into his glass.

“Quite. Anyway, I kept on with the extra miracles as long as I was allowed, which wasn’t very long at all by our standards. Then, the humans decided to make me into a saint.”

Crowley threw his head back in mirth then, cackling like a hyena.

“You? A bloody saint? Oh, angel, you know I love you but just last week I saw you practically drag an old lady out of here and take her arm off in the process!”

Aziraphale leaned forward abruptly. His glued on Santa beard nearly came free with the force and slid down his face a bit.

“I did not! I _kindly_ escorted her out because she was getting handsy with my first edition Heyers!”

“Handsy? Oh, you minx,” Crowley said, delighted. 

“Do you want to hear this or not? I do have places to be.”

“Go on, go on.” Crowley waved him on with a dramatic gesture.

“Thank you. Well, even after I left Patara and moved elsewhere, the humans kept telling the stories, and they started to change it and expand upon it and it got bigger and bigger. Finally, the Dutch and the Americans got to it in the 19th century and made the tale into what it is today. And ever since then I have been...making appearances, as it were. It’s just so lovely to see the smile on a sick child’s face when you give them a gift their parents couldn’t afford, or, or when you can pay the bills for a struggling young woman, just for one month. And now that we’re free of our respective sides, I can do as much as I want to help people,” he exclaimed with glee.

Crowley sat back on the sofa and smiled at him, his eyes crinkling at the sides. Here, in the bookshop, with wine and a gift of chocolates to be given, watching the old angel light up about bringing Christmas cheer to the downtrodden, he was content. More than content. He was happy. Blissfully, truly, happy. 

He stood up and crossed over to Aziraphale, who looked at him with slight confusion. He bent his lithe body at the waist and pressed a chaste kiss to Aziraphale’s temple and flicked his hat for good measure. 

“You know? I love you,” he said. “Go off and work your magic, then.”

Aziraphale stood suddenly, nearly knocking their heads together. 

“My magic?” He reached for Crowley’s ear. The demon caught him by the wrist.

“Miracles. I meant miracles, angel. Like this.” He snapped his fingers, and they both watched as mistletoe bloomed above their heads. 

“You know, Crowley, I always say-”

“Shut it,” Crowley interrupted, and leaned in to firmly kiss the only being he had ever, ever, wanted to share a holiday with.


End file.
